I don't dream of running a supermarket. Oh no. I have my eyes fixed firmly on those glittering lights above my head. I'll probably find on my death bed they were the reflections off a disco ball, but in the mean time...
I need a kick up the arse and after a couple of years of toying with the idea and backing off because I know once I start I won't be able to stop however bad the results I've almost committed myself to signing up for this year's Panorama.
Having to do too many early days might screw that completely, though. If I work the late shift I have to get up, get the offspring to school then have about two and a half hours available before I have to get ready to work. By the time I get in the offspring is in bed. That's about 9:30. Depending on what time the Slug fucks off and leaves me in peace I might get a bit more in before I have to go to bed. In all probability that gives me four hours a day, plus the days I'm not working plus every second Sunday to reach a target of 50,000 not necessarily readable words, though obviously producing something I'm prepared to attach my name to would be a positive.
And I've shelved the outline I put together last month which is clearly too ambitious and already unwieldy in favour of something simpler and more achievable.
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